Ghost Center (revised)

Your ghost center
looks like a pineapple:
gray leaves for a crown,
deep scaly skin.

It breathes irregularly,
lives by remote sensing.
Seeks your fear,
sings when it’s closing in.

Its spines pressed against
the inside of your chest
remind you of waiting for
your father’s wrath after school.

Someday you’ll find it, you swear,
and core it.
Eat its purple flesh.
Digest it, get rid of it.

But until then
it shall grow without stopping.
Your ghost center claims to be
your friend, pretends it’s your heart

though it only beats
when you see yourself
in a mirror and realize
you don’t know that man.

You can feel it then,
riffing stop-time
as it seethes
and strangles from within.